


COUNTDOWN

by missilemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missilemuse/pseuds/missilemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Lestrade takes a trip down memory lane, to find Sherlock at all the important stops. It includes my versions of their first meeting, post-ASIP, post-TGG and post-Reichenbach from Lestrade’s POV. Complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I have attempted to write a Lestrade-centric fic. That is not saying much, as this is only the second story that I am posting. I was terrified of getting the character less perfect than the exact way I wanted him. This was supposed to be a small; less than 1500 word fic. But after the first five lines, it mutated to develop its own feet and I had to run with it. For those of you who will have the patience to read it, I am thankful in advance. Please do review!
> 
> Spoilers: for all the three episodes.  
> Disclaimer: John and Sherlock belong to ACD's grey cells. Lestrade in my story, is inspired by Rupert Graves’ take on the character in the B.B.C. reincarnation.

 

( **December 31, 2011)**

  **“TEN!”**

_(He shivered as a visceral response kicked in as a reaction to the crescendo, which had nothing to do with here and now and transported him to another time and place.)_  
   
“What! What did he say? It’s a kid! Oh God, it’s a kid! Jesus!”  
   
His hand had flown to his mouth. His brain had frozen in panic, till  _he_  had worked a miracle as usual… touch and go. It had been so close. Even the memory gave him goosebumps.  
   
“THE VAN BUREN SUPERNOVA!”  
   
   
   
 **“NINE!”**   
   
 **“ _She was nine years old!”_**  
   
“ _Sergeant_  Donovan, you need to calm down.”  
   
He hated pulling rank, always had but she was giving him no choice. Sally was new to the team, young, competent and with tremendous potential. He had bodily dragged her away from his Consultant Detective before she could do some real damage.  
   
Her voice held all the violence that she had been unable to release, “She was a nine year old girl, Sir. Her body is still warm and he has the gall to walk up to her parents and ask them if their daughter was sexually active. You think that’s ok?”  
   
He looked steadily in her eyes, trying to make his point. “If he leads us to the guy who did this, then yes.”  
   
She looked at her Boss, her gaze unflinchingly honest. “You cannot demand that I respect  _that_  man when he doesn't even respect the victims, SIR.”  
   
Before Lestrade could reply, the object of their discussion loomed at his shoulder.  
   
“It was the mother.”  
   
Sherlock ignored Sally, ignored the bruise blooming up on his chin, ignored the drop of blood about to trickle down his chin, which was giving Lestrade a sudden absurd urge to reach out a hand and wipe it away.  
   
“The father was abusing the girl, the mother killed her to protect her.”  
   
He quashed the urge but turned his back on Sally to face him properly. “Alright, Gimme.”  
   
   
   
 **“EIGHT!”**   
   
“Congratulations, Mr. Lestrade. In eight months you’ll be a father!”  
   
 _Damn it!_  He was supposed to feel happy. It was a textbook happy moment. He had been newly promoted, his wife was healthy, beaming uncertainly. They had waited  _so_  long for this. He worked his facial muscles into an approximation of a smile for Julia’s benefit. She didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his doubts.  
   
So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that as soon as they had returned home from the sonologist, she faced him calmly and said, “This isn’t working, Greg.”  
   
 _It was Sherlock’s fault._   _He_  had made Greg used to brutal truths being casually flung in his face, probably the only reason why he was still standing even when it felt like Julia had taken a cleaver to his heart.  
   
“Julie, this is not the time. We are having a baby!”  
   
“No, Greg,  **_I_ **  am having a baby.  **You**  are never here. Between your work and that boy, it’s a miracle that we even conceived in the first place.”  
   
Anger came first. “ _That boy_  stopped an innocent man from being jailed for life yesterday. Don’t blame him for  _our_ problems. So that’s it, you’re pregnant, so you decided you can leave me now as I have served my purpose in this marriage.”  
   
She shook her head helplessly, “I had the papers drawn up two weeks ago. I was just waiting for you to be home for more than four hours at a time to tell you. This… just happened.”  
   
“ ** _This_  ** is our future you're talking about.” His voice broke, pleading, “I’ll try harder Julia. Please… don’t do this!”  
   
Her eyes were tearful as she walked up to him and gently placed a kiss on his forehead. “You could have been an amazing husband, Greg. You  _will_  be a great father. I am not going to take that away from you. But with you, the greater good will always come first. You’re just not selfish enough to want your own happiness. I want more, both for me and our child. Please understand. Don’t make this harder than it is.”  
   
 _Don’t break down in her presence,_  his brain was screaming at him. He clenched his fists and bit back his tears.  
His phone buzzed.  
   
ROBERT HENLEY MURDER.  
22, BETHNAL GREEN.  
NEED YOU. – SH  
   
He grasped the last three words like a drowning man would clutch a life-preserver. He turned and walked out of the door.  
   
   
   
 **“SEVEN!”**

“Only seven hours, Detective Inspector!”, the voice was mocking. “You are already passing out on us. That just won’t do.”

The commanding voice told him that the man in charge had finally arrived.  
   
He was tied to a chair inside what looked like a warehouse. They had done a number on him for the 'interrogation'. Lestrade had made his head fall boneless, lolling forward on his chest. He was in a sea of pain but it would stay the beatings if they thought he wasn’t completely lucid. He was not a coward but at the moment, self-preservation took precedence.  
   
The team knew that he had taken the weekend off to finalise the divorce. He had been leaving the court, intending to get plastered at the nearest pub when this lot had had got their hands on him. If the man was right, there were nearly thirty hours to go before he was supposed to turn up for work, forty-odd hours before anyone would think to consider him missing. The math was disheartening.  
   
He felt a gloved hand holding his chin and pulling his face up. The man in front of him would have been a shoo-in for Penguin in a Batman flick. Peter Carney aka ‘Tiny Pete’, mob-boss, drug-lord, nigh untouchable for the Met, until now.  
   
“You ready to talk, Inspector? We know, you got that rat-bastard Lenny to turn witness. All you need to do is give us the address of his safe-house. You have my word; we’ll let you walk away. No one will even know that you helped us.”

His answering words were faint but to the point. “Fuck off!”

He was expecting the fist that rammed into his solar plexus, that didn’t make it hurt any less.  
   
“Bad answer, hero. Don’t worry, we’ll talk later, when you've changed your mind.” The voice had moved further away when it commanded, “Get Bruiser in here.”  
   
 _Julia had wanted it to be ‘Jennifer’_ . He had argued on principle even when he didn’t have a particular name in mind.  
Now as he heard the room clear and leave him to the tender mercies of 'Bruiser', he thought ‘ _Jenny’ wasn’t so bad_ .  
   
As he heard footsteps approach the chair, he took a deep breath resigning himself to the oncoming pain.

What he didn’t expect, was the ‘uhnff’ sound followed by a crash as the only other guard in the room collapsed to the floor at his feet.  
   
Lestrade blinked stupidly, looking at the prone form and then dragged his eyes up to see the man responsible for making it happen.  
   
He was tall, ginger-haired, with a full beard and a pony-tail, beetle-black eyes and a lithe form. He was wearing only a vest over his jeans which showed off his broad shoulders and thin yet muscled arms with tattoos on both sides. The second shock came when he stepped nimbly over the guard’s body and fell to his knees in front of Lestrade’s chair whipping out a pen-knife to cut the ropes.  
   
“You alright, Lestrade?”  
   
 _OH!_  
   
“YOU!”  
   
He hadn’t seen him for nearly three weeks after having turned him away from the last crime scene, where he had turned up as high as a kite. Lestrade found himself temporarily speechless. Somehow his mind couldn’t reconcile the two images, that of his posh, great-coat wearing, swanning Consultant Detective and the man in front of him.  
   
“What… How! What did you do with the real Bruiser?”  
   
“Oh! I  _am_  Bruiser. That’s the name I use to box at this illegal club when I’m bored. Carney has been trying to recruit me for months. I just pretended to be interested today.”  
   
“YOU are bloody insane!”  
   
“And you, Lestrade, are a moron to get kidnapped by a bunch of nincompoops. Seriously, the Carney Case!  It's not worth getting tortured and killed over. It’s dull!”  
   
Lestrade laughed. He couldn’t help it; just as he couldn’t help noticing how the fingers that were working his ropes free were trembling. He found his voice. “Hey relax, its ok; I’m alright.”  
   
Later at the hospital, he used the phone next to his bed to call his now ex-wife.  
“Hello Julia, this is Greg.” He cleared his throat. “Just called to say that I changed my mind. I think Jennifer is a lovely name.”  
   
   
   
 **“SIX!”**   
   
This was the sixth time he had rushed to the hospital. Five false alarms had made him complacent. Julia had been very understanding, had made it quite clear that she didn’t expect him to be there when their daughter was born. But Lestrade was nothing if not stubborn. Nothing in the world would make him miss the one positive thing that was happening in his life.  
   
At least that is what he had thought.  
   
This was the first time he had skidded into the hospital lobby  _after_  Julia. Since he was late, this had to be the real deal.  
   
“Mr. Gregory Lestrade. You’re the father.”  
   
“Yes that’s me,” he patiently repeated to the woman at the desk. “The expectant mother is Julia Andrews. She must have reached here about fifteen minutes before me.”  
   
“Yes, of course. Please take a seat. Dr. Patel will be out to speak with you shortly.”  
   
Dr. Patel turned out to be a diminutive middle-aged brunette with kind brown eyes. “Mr. Lestrade, your wife has experienced a placental bleed. Thankfully, it is not severe but we had to sedate her for the pain. The bleed appears to be causing some foetal distress. We need your permission for a C-section. I don’t anticipate any complications during the procedure. Your wife has been very prompt in seeking help.”  
   
She thrust a form at him, which he signed with shaking fingers, feeling overwhelmed and out of his depth.  
   
“Doctor, will they be alright?”  
   
She patted his back, as she got up to leave him, “We’ll be taking her into surgery now. Don’t worry; we’ll do our best.”  
   
The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He left the waiting room to pace the parking-lot of the hospital. He felt tense and stretched like a trip-wire. He was on his fifth cigarette when his phone buzzed. He wanted to ignore it.  _Not today!_  He thought. Wanting was not enough though. Julie had been right. He was pathetic. He groaned on seeing the sender name.  
   
 **M tell mummy im sorry.**  
   
 _No signature, no comma, no capitals…SORRY!_

He froze mid-step, cigarette dangling limp between his fingers, unable to ignore the spike of fear uncoiling in his belly. It could be innocent. He had no idea who M was but the message was definitely not meant for him. He should feel relieved but as he stared at the words, he felt the fear crawl its way up his spine and grip his throat. His fingers were trembling as he called back. The line connected; he could hear the phone ring.

_Pick up! Pick up! PICK UP!_

The mobile rang into silence.  
   
 _SHIT!_  
   
The cigarette had already been flung aside. He found himself racing to his car. By the time he was peeling out of the driveway, he was on the phone with Emergency Services. If it turned out to be nothing, he would take the flak for it later. He reached Montague Street to find the ambulance already there with a barely breathing, pale figure being loaded into the back of it.

For the second time that night, Lestrade found himself using the siren on his car as he escorted the ambulance back to the hospital in record time. All the while, the past four years were flicking through his mind like a photo album, faces of the people who owed their lives to Sherlock when they didn’t even know of his existence, the thankless, anonymous existence of a ghost.  
   
 _Please God, let him live..._ he begged. They needed Sherlock.  _He_  needed Sherlock.  
   
He had overdosed on morphine. Thankfully the E.M.T’s had got the Naloxone into him before his breathing had deteriorated enough to require a respirator. When he was given the good news, he collapsed into a chair out of sheer relief. That was how Dr. Patel found him, when she came to tell him that he was now the proud father of a healthy baby girl.  
   
It was later, when he held his daughter in his arms for the first time that he realised the root of his feelings for Sherlock, the fierce pride, the overwhelming urge to protect.  
   
Next morning, he entered Sherlock’s room with his daughter in his arms. He was halted in his tracks by a cutting baritone, “Before you say  _anything_ , I  ** _wasn’t_ ** trying to kill myself. It was an accident. I realised it was an overdose  _after_  it happened. So you can spare me the sermon. Just leave me alone.”  
   
Lestrade calmly crossed the room and placed the swaddled bundle in the Detective’s lap. He scrambled to hold her like she was made of crystal, looking at Lestrade like he had gone mad.  
   
“WHAT are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”  
   
Lestrade fixed his daughter’s eyes with his own and gesturing towards Sherlock, said very solemnly, “Jenny, this is Sherlock.”  
She gurgled in response.  
   
“Lestrade, this is an infant. She can’t comprehend what you are saying… this is ridiculous!”  
   
“He is an amazing genius who did a very stupid thing yesterday and the worst part is, he doesn’t even think it was wrong.”  
   
“Yes, using your spawn, to give me a life-lesson, very original!”  
   
Lestrade continued as though there had been no interruption, eyes focussed on Jenny. “But you should also know that on most days unlike yesterday, he's a great man. He saves people when he is not being stupid. He is the reason why Daddy will get to watch you grow up, coz he's saved my life many times over. I know that one day you will want to thank him properly for that yourself, wouldn’t you? So, you will want him to stick around for that day, right?”  
   
His eyes snapped up to the blue-grey ones. Lestrade knew his voice had choked towards the end. He could barely see through the film of tears in his eyes, but he repeated his question firmly, holding the piercing gaze, “ **Right** ?”  
   
Sherlock dropped his eyes to Jenny’s face and answered softly, “Right.”  
   
   
   
 **“FIVE!”**   
   
“…its five thousand pounds. There has to be a mistake!”  
   
“Uh…Sir,” the clerk’s polite voice was slipping. “Are you implying that you have  ** _more_ ** money in your account than you are supposed to?”  
   
“Damn right, its more. I had fifty pounds in there. What the hell happened?”  
   
The clerk cleared his throat audibly. “You have to understand Sir, that this is the first time that we are receiving a complaint of this nature. Uh… but our records show no discrepancies at our end. The amount was deposited in your account electronically yesterday, using passwords only **_you_ ** are privy to. It's not like we can remove the money, anymore than we can put it in. I’m sorry, but there’s only so much we can do.”  
   
Lestrade slammed the phone in frustration. He wished he could ask Sherlock, who would definitely have an answer to how and why someone would hack into his bank-account to  ** _give_ ** him money. But the Detective had left for Surrey the day before, muttering something about an interesting missing person’s case. Keeping Sherlock busy was Lestrade’s withdrawal strategy for him and so far it was working brilliantly.  
   
It had to be a bribe, or a frame-up of some sort, the first step towards implicating him in something shady. But the lack of someone claiming credit was weird.  
   
Then there was the timing of the unexpected windfall. Temptation was a seductive bitch! Between the alimony, child-support and moving into a new place in London, Lestrade was flat broke. He had yet to make this month’s rent. That hadn’t stopped him from insisting that Sherlock move in with him temporarily till he found a new place. That  _Sherlock_  was humouring him was a silver lining in an otherwise grim situation.  
   
He made a formal complaint at the Met regarding the money, then forgot all about it for the rest of the day. He let himself into the flat that evening, thinking longingly of his bed. But he had grown used to his life, where nothing ever went according to plan.  
   
“Good Evening, Detective Inspector.”  
   
The voice was silky, smooth, and deceptive, as was the appearance of the man sitting comfortably on his couch. He was tall, middle-aged with slightly thinning hair and a piercing gaze which belied the benign expression on his face. The old-fashioned three piece suit (if it hadn’t been hideously expensive) and the brolly, on which he was resting his hands, could have passed him off as a Uni professor. But (with nearly twenty years of experience backing him), he could instinctively sense the aura of power that clung to him like second skin. This was a man, who was used to being obeyed. Sitting calmly on his second-hand sofa, he radiated the kind of menace that men like Peter Carney failed to inspire even with half a dozen armed thugs surrounding them. The apparent geniality didn’t fool him one bit. This was a very dangerous man indeed.  
   
He then realised that he had frozen in his living room, one hand already in his pocket to call for help.  
   
“There is no need to be alarmed Inspector. I merely wish to have a chat.” The man placidly gestured to the chair opposite to the sofa with his umbrella. “Do sit down. You must be exhausted after a long day at work.”  
   
The gall of this housebreaker to offer him a chair in his own house prompted Lestrade to speech. “I don’t care who the hell you are. Since you already know I’m a cop, I’ll give you exactly one minute to come up with a reasonable explanation for your actions before I put you under arrest for B & E.”

The man wrinkled his nose slightly. “Come come, Inspector. I would hardly call it breaking and entering when I let myself in using a key.”  
   
Lestrade followed the gesture his hand made to the side table where he saw the key, the sturdy key-chain in shape of a skull that he had purchased on the day of Sherlock’s discharge.  
   
Sherlock’s key.

The man was still smiling at Greg. It was the smile that made him snap.

Red hot fury gripped him, as he stalked to the sofa, grabbed the man by the lapels of his posh coat and hauled him up till his face was inches from his own. “Where the hell is he? What have you done with him? I swear, if he's hurt-”  
   
His words were cut off by the sound of the door he had forgotten to close being pushed open, followed by the last voice he had expected to hear. “Lestrade, did you know that the doo... What the…”  
   
For an instant, it was a frozen tableau. The first thing Lestrade felt was surprise at being able to surprise Sherlock, followed by relief that he was unharmed. The next instant his common-sense reasserted itself and he dropped the man as though he had been scalded. He stepped back ready to apologise for the presumption but before he could speak, the second impossible thing happened.  
   
Sherlock burst out laughing.

Real, unfettered, uncontrollable, honest-to-goodness laughter, a phenomenon that Lestrade had never seen in the five years that he had known him. It made Sherlock look ten years younger. Just for a moment, the stranger in front of him mirrored his own expression, incredulity warring with hope, like he was witnessing something that he had given up on a long time back.

As Lestrade blinked, the stranger’s face closed again showing nothing but haughty derision at the sight of Sherlock still convulsing with laughter. But he had seen and understood. This man could not harm Sherlock anymore than he could.

“I am glad I could amuse you, Sherlock.” He turned to Lestrade with a faintly flushed face, “I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. I think I can safely assume that he has never mentioned me.”  
   
“IT… WAS… PRICELESS,” Sherlock finally sputtered. “It was  ** _completely_ ** worth letting your minion pick-pocket me today. Had I been just a minute late, he would have broken your nose and it would have served you right, you overbearing git.”  
   
Mycroft (M?) turned to look at Lestrade, who was now red-faced and staring at his shoes, hands in his pockets. He couldn’t meet the man’s eyes.  
   
“I shouldn’t have-” he started to speak.  
   
“It’s alright, Detective Inspector, my irksome brother has a tendency to rouse the strongest feelings in the people he chooses to interact with. Usually those feelings are negative.You had good reason to be suspicious.” He gave Lestrade a small genuine smile which was tentatively returned.  
   
Sherlock could sense the non-verbal conversation in which he wasn’t included and marched upto his brother to chivvy him to the door. “That’s it, Mycroft. You came here to see me. I’m alive. Now that your morbid curiosity has been satisfied, you may leave.”  
   
“Sherlock!” Lestrade hissed, appalled at his behaviour.  
   
He whirled on him, “Oh God, not you too!” He closed his eyes and stomped to the spare bedroom, stopping at the door to throw his words back at Lestrade. “Fine, don’t say that I didn’t warn you!” He slammed the door.  
   
Looking meaningfully at the closed door, Mycroft said, “I should leave.” Just as Lestrade began to voice his protests, he said, “No, it’s fine really, if you could just walk with me to my car…”  
   
After having nearly decked the man, Lestrade couldn’t help but agree. His car turned out to be a black, bullet-proof behemoth that dwarfed the Street and had been nowhere around when he had come home. Mycroft didn’t mince words when he faced Lestrade.  
   
“I wanted to say, that it was me who had that money transferred to your bank account.”  
   
Okay! So maybe Sherlock did have a point.  
   
“Please let me explain. It is not my intention to cheapen what you are doing for Sherlock and I would be grateful if you didn’t take it that way. I have pulled Sherlock back from the precipice three times before this, but he has never been able to resist the pull of trying to jump again. I am infinitely glad that fate chose for  _you_  to help him this time. But what relieves me more, is that he continues to accept your help. I … would trade places with you in a heart-beat, if I could.”  
   
He could neither explain nor protest at the pained expression on Mycroft’s face. Although, he did seem to know that Lestrade’s involvement in the incident was wholly by accident. Greg imagined what it would have been like to be in his place, to have received the message that had come to him by mistake. He shuddered to realise the helplessness a man like Mycroft must feel at the moment; the level of trust he was placing in him- a total stranger, by walking away.  
   
“…but it is your help that he wants and needs.” His expression became pragmatic. “Taking care of a recovering addict is hard enough, without all the other burdens that you are carrying. If this is the  ** _only_ ** way that I can be of some help, please don’t deprive me of the opportunity to do my bit.”

***

After Mycroft left, Lestrade hurried back up the stairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, glowering at the door. He gave Lestrade a venomous glance.

“So? Did he offer you money to spy on me?”  
   
Lestrade considered the question before replying. “Yes.”  
   
“Did you take it?”  
   
“Yes, thought we could split the fee!”  
   
There was a pause as he gave Lestrade one sharp searching look.  
   
 _It’s a day of firsts_ , Lestrade thought in the next moment, as they both burst out laughing  _together._

 

**“FOUR!”**  
   
It was the fourth serial suicide, when he decided that Sherlock was right.  
   
His eyes had barely stopped to take in the unassuming man sitting in the chair in Sherlock’s new apartment. He _had_  looked more closely when the man had followed him to the crime-scene. But when Sherlock abandoned him there, Lestrade didn’t spare him a second thought. _That_  was his first mistake.  
   
The drugs-bust was regretful but necessary. This was the first time Sherlock was going to be on his own since the incident. The charade had served three purposes- letting the Doctor know his would-be flatmate’s history, find any hidden drugs in the stuff that had yet to be put away and lastly, recover ‘borrowed’ evidence. Seeing the man bristle at Sherlock’s implied drug-use should have been his second clue.  
   
That Sherlock had then decided to go gallivanting off with a serial killer was not the surprising part. The surprising part was that John Watson had chosen to follow.  
   
Lestrade wasn’t a Holmes. So he took his own time in coming to the conclusion that John Watson entering the life of one Sherlock Holmes was going to be a life-altering event for everyone concerned.  
   
 _“_ _The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman,a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and... nerves of steel...”_ Lestrade bit back a gasp at his epiphany, as Sherlock tapered off staring at his new flat-mate.  
   
He watched dumbfounded as the pair walked off giggling, right into the waiting arms of his new boyfriend and the blackberry toting Venus he had for an assistant. Seriously, Mycroft would never have gotten away with keeping her, had he been straight and not been sleeping with her in the first place.  
   
It was strange to use a word as mundane as boyfriend in the same sentence as Mycroft Holmes, not least because the word did no justice to their relationship.  _Easy, Greg it’s just been a few weeks_ , he reminded himself. Neither the lack-lustre terminology nor the reminder did anything to diminish the jolt he always felt on seeing the man.  
   
He took stock of his crime-scene. Hope’s corpse had already been moved to the morgue and Forensics had finished their job. The paperwork would anyways have to wait till he had Sherlock’s statement. He left Sally in charge of the mop-up and left to meet Mycroft, who was patiently waiting for him, having dismissed his retinue for the night.  
   
Lestrade grinned at him tiredly, as they walked to his normal work-a-day car. The upside to being in a relationship with an omniscient man was that you never had to tell him how bad your day had been. Then again, Mycroft had the uncanny ability to strike at the heart of any matter which reflected in his question. “Why don’t you look happy enough to have caught a serial- killer?”  
   
As he started the car, Lestrade debated on how much to tell him now. Mycroft would get his hands on the official report later, but that wasn’t going to reveal anything either. Hope had been found unarmed (the fake gun wouldn’t have fooled Sherlock in a million years). Yet he had been shot. If his suspicions about the shooter were correct, Sherlock had to have been in danger, which led to the conclusion that he had been about to take the pill, under no coercion or threat to his life, just on Hope’s say-so.

_Sherlock had almost jumped again today_. Mycroft’s blood-pressure would not react well to that.

Mycroft watched the by-play of emotions on his face and smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay Gregory, I monitor the CCTV cameras opposite 221B. I know he went off voluntarily with the cabbie.” That explained why, since the first time they had started dating, Mycroft had turned up at a crime-scene.  
   
Lestrade smiled ruefully back, “I wish  _that_  was the part, I was afraid to tell you about.”  
   
Mycroft studied his face before sitting back slowly, smile disappearing. “Oh, I see…” He gave Lestrade a puzzled look, “But the taxi-driver was shot and Sherlock doesn’t possess a gun.” As his mind came to the same conclusion with half the data, he gave a brilliant smile, “After knowing my brother only for a day… amazing!”  
   
There was barely suppressed mirth on Lestrade’s face too, as he concentrated on the road. “I have  ** _no_**  idea who you are talking about. As far as the Met is concerned, the shooter escaped.”  
   
“Of course,” Mycroft nodded solemnly, though he couldn’t stop smiling. “Flat-mate to friend in the course of a day. It’s a new record for Sherlock!”  
   
“Oh I wouldn’t just say ‘friend’ now, would you?” Lestrade said nonchalantly.  
   
“ ** _I_**  would say that it's time we told Sherlock about us,” Mycroft replied with a mischievous smirk on his face.  
   
“I can't wait to tell him how his big brother has a penchant for falling for someone who can manhandle him." Greg dropped a light kiss on Mycroft’s lips before getting out of the car, which he had stopped in front of his apartment. "As long as you remember that you owe me a hundred pounds, if he has already figured it out.”  
   
Mycroft didn’t stay beyond dinner as he had an early morning conference call. That night just before going to bed, he couldn’t help sending a message.  
   
TO: SH  
CONGRATULATIONS FOR THE CASE  
AND THE NEW FLAT-MATE. ;)  
   
Almost instantly, his phone buzzed with a reply-  
   
SAME TO YOU.  
HE IS A FAT GIT, BUT I AM HAPPY FOR YOU. - SH.  
   
Lestrade went to bed chuckling to himself, as he thought of Mycroft’s face and how he would spend the hundred pounds. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Inspector Lestrade takes a trip down memory lane, to find Sherlock at all the important stops. It includes my versions of their first meeting, post-ASIP, post-TGG and post-Reichenbach from Lestrade’s POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for an angst OD…

**  
“THREE!”   
**   
  
“It’s been three days.”   
  
“He is showing major improvement on the Glasgow Coma Scale since the surgery. We are very hopeful that he should recover consciousness in the next couple of days. However, any cognitive dysfunction can be assessed only when he wakes up.”   
  
Lestrade couldn’t bear to see the hopeful expression on Harriet Watson’s face at the neurosurgeon’s words. She had been pathetically grateful to him for informing her though she hadn’t been the emergency medical contact listed by John.   
  
It is not as though Lestrade had had a choice. John’s emergency contact had disappeared.   
  
It was going to be the stuff of his nightmares for as long as he lived. The puzzles… the bomber… the pool… the explosion…   
  
Sherlock had been sopping wet and mildly concussed but had miraculously escaped serious injury. He had accompanied John to Bart’s in the ambulance holding his bloodied hand, mute and unresponsive to Lestrade’s questions; his eyes fixed unblinking on his friend’s face.

  
At the Hospital, John had been immediately whisked off into emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain due to blunt head trauma from falling debris. The doctors hadn’t been sure if he would survive the surgery.   
  
Lestrade had been with Sherlock as they had patched up the detective's superficial burns and cuts, his eyes now unfocussed and glassy. He had been practically catatonic, obeying the medical personnel silently but volunteering nothing. Lestrade had resisted the urge to viciously shake him out of his stupor. The man was in shock after all. Against his better judgement, he had to leave Sherlock in the waiting room, to deal with the press conference for the bombing, that he was supposed to organise for the morning News.   
  
_Once John came out of surgery, Sherlock would be okay_ …he made it a litany in his head, concentrating on it so as to not drown in panic. The alternative was unthinkable.   
  
When he found time to visit Bart’s the next day, Sherlock was gone.   
  
The cameras in the lobby showed him walking out of the hospital entrance at 7 a.m., of his own volition. John had still been in surgery. His mobile phone which had been switched off and discarded in the waiting room yielded no clues. There was no evidence to indicate a kidnapping. Sherlock had simply chosen to vanish.   
  
Lestrade had been furious in turns… with himself, with Mycroft, with John even, but most of all with Sherlock for being a stupid selfish bastard!

  
He had left Lestrade with absolutely nothing to go on. With one of his key witnesses comatose and the other missing, he had nothing but conjecture. He was reasonably sure that John had been a hostage but he hadn’t been wearing the jacket. A waterlogged Browning had been found in the pool and was determined to have triggered the bomb. There were no other bodies. The name Moriarty yielded nothing.  
  
As he drove home for the first time in two days, he caved and placed the call though it was tantamount to breaking a personal rule and declaring the Met’s utter helplessness in the matter.  
  
“ _Where is he_ , Mycroft? What is the use of all your surveillance if you cannot find one man?”

  
Mycroft’s voice was deliberately soothing. “This is my brother we are talking about. You know him better than I do. If he doesn’t want to be found, he can make it very difficult indeed.”  
  
Lestrade let the simmering anger take over. “How do you know that he’s okay? What if Moriarty has got to him somehow? He was in shock, Mycroft! What if he OD’s again? I should never have left him alone!”  
  
“Gregory… Greg! Get a grip on yourself. He  _will_ come back. He cares for John too much to leave him like this. He has to come back.”  
  
So Mycroft had a litany too. Beneath the calm veneer, Lestrade could sense the frantic concern; the shame at his failure to locate his brother. Lestrade had not met him since the insane game had started. He had been the one to give Mycroft the news of the pool and Moriarty. That he had been unaware of the pool situation, had been the biggest shock for Lestrade. It showed that the bomber was brilliant enough to take advantages of loopholes in the system, so as to not show up even on Mycroft’s radar.  
  
One thing was certain. Right now, neither of them had the luxury of breaking down!  
  
“I…I’m sorry Mycroft. It’s just… I’m fraying at the edges here. If anything happens to either one of them…”  
  
“I know”, Mycroft’s voice echoed the dread he felt. “I’ll let you know as soon as something turns up. I have to go now.”  
  
That night despite exhaustion, Lestrade was sleeping fitfully when he sensed a noise in his room. He sat up suddenly in the pitch dark, heart hammering, panicking at the thought of John, and the hospital calling. His hand swept out to put on the light switch, which was near the bed. Harsh light flooded the room…to fall on a tall, shaking figure standing at the bedroom door.  
  
It was the sweeping relief he felt on seeing Sherlock, which told him how uncertain he had been of ever seeing him again. He looked like a wraith, gaunt with dark hollows under his eyes, wearing the same torn, blood-spattered suit that he had been wearing three days ago at the explosion site. He was shaking like a leaf, barely holding himself up on the bedroom door.

  
“Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, jumping to catch him, just as he swayed violently and crumpled to the floor.   
  
It was fucking freezing outside, but these tremors weren’t just due to the cold. Lestrade could recognise withdrawal when he saw it. He cradled the limp body, as he sat on the floor under Sherlock’s weight. He hadn’t lost unconsciousness, but held on to Lestrade’s night-shirt with white shaking fingers muttering deliriously. Lestrade swore again, as he bodily hauled him up to the bed, where he proceeded to pile all the covers over the shivering form. He quickly checked Sherlock over, to find that he had no fresh injuries; not even visible track marks. He looked dehydrated but had a strong pulse. He debated his options. If he called an ambulance, he would have to report the drug use. He decided to wait till morning.   
  
It was going to be a very long night…   
  
“John!” Sherlock’s voice croaked, suddenly loud, in the middle of his babble. The word started to release all the pent-up frustration Lestrade was feeling. But he viciously clamped down the anger, drawing on years of experience of dealing with Sherlock at crime-scenes. 

  
_Later_ , he told himself. He sat all night by his bed, mopping Sherlock’s forehead, coaxing him up to take sips of water and orange juice at regular intervals. Thankfully, he kept the fluids down.   
  
Throughout the night Sherlock was raving…apologising to him, thinking he was John; begging his forgiveness for killing him. He didn’t seem to know that John was alive. At one point, he had made a pitiful gesture to attack him, calling him ‘Jim’.

  
By the time dawn lighted his curtains and Sherlock finally fell asleep, Lestrade had lost all desire to chastise the man. There was nothing he could say to make him suffer any more than he already was.  
  
He called up at work to take a never before taken sick day off. He had already messaged Mycroft but had asked him to stay away for the time-being.  
  
When Sherlock finally woke up properly at around 10 a.m., it was to find Lestrade looming over him with a forbidding expression.  
“Sherlock, if you know what’s good for you, you will shut up and listen. You are going to eat and drink whatever I give you and then you are going to have a shower…no arguments!”  
  
“John…”  
  
“…is alive. And that is all I’m going to tell you for now.”  
  
Maybe it was the way his voice sounded; like an ultimatum. But Sherlock meekly downed a huge glass of orange juice and cleared an even larger plate of scrambled eggs, without protest. The tremors were intermittent now and he could shower without Lestrade’s help, which proved his hunch right. The weakness had been mostly starvation induced.  
  
When Sherlock finally looked halfway human, dressed in some of his old things; Lestrade sat him down on the sofa.  
“Talk… What happened at the pool?”  
  
Sherlock’s answering voice was dry, mechanical, “It was Jim… Jim Moriarty. He had John, covered in Semtex.” His face gave an involuntary twitch. “He was there himself with multiple snipers. We talked…he left. I got the jacket off John and threw it across the floor. They came back, threatened to shoot us. I shot the jacket. John tackled me into the pool. End of story!”  
  
Lestrade was already reading between the lines. “You TALKED?”  
  
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, avoiding his eyes, “Oh, the usual guff. I’m an evil mastermind…you will never catch me. Your run-of-the-mill megalomaniacal boasting.”  
  
“Which prompted you to leave your best friend who was still in surgery, to go out and get high.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flashed, “Were you even listening? I **.** SHOT **.** THE **.** BOMB. I brought the building down on his head. I am the reason why John nearly died.”  
  
“It was  _obvious_ that it was Moriarty who made you pull the trigger. Since when do you accept undeserved guilt, Sherlock?” He had looked away again.  
Lestrade decided that he had had enough. “Fine, I’ll take your official statement later. We are going to the hospital right now.”  
  
“NO!”  
  
Lestrade’s voice was low, dangerous, “What do you mean, no?”  
  
Sherlock swallowed visibly. “I’m not going to the hospital.”  
  
“Let me get this right- you have decided, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about your reasons: that it’s a good idea to abandon your best friend, when he’s comatose in a hospital.”  
  
Sherlock blanched at Lestrade’s words, but his voice was steady. “I believe that it’s for the best, if John isn’t my friend anymore.”  
  
Lestrade studied him with disgust; remembering John lying in his bed with no one to guide him back from wherever he was lost inside his own head. John deserved better.  _He_ deserved better. All the fury that he had bottled up over the last four days lanced out in his tone, the only weapon he had against the impassive figure. He was literally shaking.  
  
“FUCK YOU! Yeah… that’s right, Sherlock. I am TIRED of waiting for you to grow up… tired of making excuses for you, both to the world and to myself. I’m sick of seeing you prove people like Sally right, over and over again. I. AM. DONE. If you walk out of that door and go anywhere but the hospital, don’t bother coming back here ever again.”  
  
Sherlock was trembling again. Lestrade stood seething, facing away from him determined to stick by his words. He could hear him get up and walk to the door, where he stopped to address him.

“What would  _you_ do, Lestrade, if someone were to hurt Mycroft just because  **_you_ ** cared for him? If you were literally, the metaphorical target painted on his back? My  **_feelings_ ** for John are going to get him killed; that is if he survives what has already happened. Is that what you want me to do? Risk his life for my happiness?”   
  
“You wretched fool”, Lestrade gave a painful laugh. “This is not a game any longer. He’s made it personal. If you walk away from John for this, it won’t matter if either you or he dies tomorrow; or lives to be ninety…whether you get Moriarty or don’t… What is the point of fighting, if there is nothing to fight for? Don’t you see? It will all be meaningless… If you do this, HE WILL HAVE ALREADY WON!”   
  
Sherlock turned on his heel and left…   
  
It was after the door had shut behind him, that the full import of what he had said hit Lestrade. It was his turn to crumple bonelessly on the sofa, utterly wrung out. His phone buzzed-   
  
FROM: MYCROFT   
WON’T LOSE HIM THIS TIME.   
GOT MY BEST WOMAN ON THE JOB.   
  
He didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t matter…he was through!   
  
Hours later, he jerked awake on the sofa, only to realise that he had dozed off without meaning to. His watch showed 7 p.m. It was way past visiting hours, but thanks to a minor Government official, he had special visiting privileges. As he was leaving for the hospital, he checked his phone to find three missed calls from Mycroft, which was unprecedented. But he ignored the calls. He didn’t want to deal with him, pleading on his brother’s behalf.   
  
What he was not expecting, was to see Mycroft’s Angel (his nickname for her) in the hospital corridor outside John’s room, head buried in her blackberry as usual. She gave him a tired smile.   
  
“Mycroft’s here?”   
  
The smile turned into a scowl. “I wish! Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes has me on baby-sitting detail”, she said, flicking her thumb to indicate the closed room. Something clicked in his mind as he recalled Mycroft’s last message. He felt a strange tightening in his chest.   
  
“HE’s here?”   
  
“Yep… came straight here from your place in the morning…hasn’t moved since. Especially since Dr. Watson recovered consciousness in the evening.”   
  
That propelled Lestrade right into the room, without knocking. It was very surreal to find Sherlock standing at the head of the bed urging John to take sips of water through a straw; when he had been doing the same for Sherlock, barely hours before.   
  
John looked…well for a man whose skull had been cracked open, he looked positively radiant under all the bandaging. Lestrade could see why; they were both alive and together. John was a soldier first. As far as he was concerned, this was a victory.

  
He pulled his mouth off the straw to smile at him. “Hello there, Detective Inspector.” His voice was slightly slurred, but coherent. He gestured to Sherlock with his uninjured hand. “I can’t believe you got him to wear jeans.”   
  
At these words, Sherlock froze looking at Lestrade, his expression uncertain.   
  
Lestrade smiled at both of them, as he moved to clasp John’s un-bandaged hand. “Yes…well… I can’t be a clothes-horse on an honest cop’s salary. It was either this, or a full Monty.”   
  
John’s answering smile was wicked. “Now  **_that_ ** would have been even more worth waking up to!”   
That set Lestrade off, while Sherlock still looked stymied, not understanding the reference.   
  
They chatted for a while, avoiding anything to do with the explosion. Sherlock hovered in the background, volunteering to answer when John asked him something. He smiled at John, laughed at his wry attempts at humour. But there was a haunted look in his eyes, which never went away entirely. Even John, half-drugged as he was could sense something was wrong, as he sometimes broke off mid-sentence to stare at Sherlock worriedly.

  
When John started to pass out from the drugs again, Lestrade pulled Sherlock out for a word.   
  
“Sherlock, for what I said today morning…”   
  
He interrupted, impatient as usual, “You were right. Don’t apologise for that when you rarely get the chance of being right in the first place.” He grinned wryly. “Besides, I hate losing.”   
  
Lestrade surveyed him seriously, and decided that the drug-use interrogation could wait. “I'll come back tomorrow to get both your official statements. Don’t worry, we’ll find this guy.”   
  
Sherlock smirked condescendingly. “No offence, Lestrade; but I’m the only one who has even a prayer of finding Jim.” The haunted look became more pronounced, “I know, it will be dangerous. I know the stakes involved now. But even if I were to die in the attempt, as long as I take him down with me, it will be a price well worth paying.”   
  
_What do you know?_ Lestrade thought, as he watched him walk back to John’s side;  _maybe the boy had grown up after all!_   
  
  
  
**“TWO!”**   
  
  
The memorial service had been held two months after Sherlock’s death.   
Lestrade remembers the date they had decided it well, for the argument over it had been the tipping point for his break-up with Mycroft.   
  
He was sitting in the second row of mourners, feeling more uncomfortable by the second because his main purpose for insisting on the ceremony wasn’t being fulfilled in any noticeable manner.   
  
“It’s all wrong. He’s going to hate this," John whispered to him, with a dry chuckle.   
  
He was sitting sandwiched between Lestrade on one side and Mrs. Hudson on the other. His voice was steady, the way it had been through the past two months, whenever Lestrade had enquired after his well being. Outwardly, it appeared as though John hadn’t been affected by Sherlock’s death at all. Only Lestrade knew the real reason why. And since John was aware that Lestrade knew, he continued on to say, “When he does die, we are going to have to get it exactly right or will probably have him haunting us, pointing out the mistakes.”   
  
It had been a month back, when Lestrade had dragged John out to a pub to get completely sloshed that he had confessed to Lestrade what he was actually thinking.

  
_He isn’t dead, Greg. He’s far too clever for Moriarty. He was fine when he went over the falls. He’s got out somehow. I won’t believe he’s dead until I see a fucking body. I dunno why he isn’t coming back but he will have some ridiculous reason, which would be absolutely right, it’s alright… I can wait!”_   
  
He was waiting, Lestrade realised. Waiting to see which knock on the door to 221B would turn out to be his friend…scanning faces in random crowds, wondering if he was there in some impenetrable disguise…updating his blog daily even when there was nothing to write, just to see if he would respond anonymously…looking up obscure codes, so that if Sherlock were to contact him using them, he would know!   
  
He was chasing after a ghost. It was going to kill him slowly.   
  
It was the same night that Lestrade had broached the subject of a Service for Sherlock. He had to be tentative, because talking to Mycroft about anything to do with his brother’s death was like walking on fucking eggshells. Lestrade remembered how, at the start of their relationship, they had resolved that it would not be all about Sherlock. They had stuck to this rule fairly. Sherlock’s death should have brought them closer. Paradoxically, it turned out to be the first nail in the coffin of their relationship.   
  
For the thousandth time Lestrade wondered, how the hell had everything gone so wrong?   
  
***   
  
Sherlock Holmes had done something impossible. After months of work, he had practically gift-wrapped Moriarty and Co. for the law enforcement agencies. The Interpol had been involved, because the organisation was found to extend through eight European countries (and operatives scattered through twenty others) with two main headquarters at London and Prague.

  
It had been a massive operation, co-ordinated to the split second, when all the bastions of the organisation had been stormed simultaneously, with no regard to time zones. Lestrade himself had been a part of the team that had cracked down on the London headquarters.

  
As reports of the major arrests trickled in from all the teams, it was confirmed that the bird itself had flown the coop. Moriarty had escaped.   
  
That afternoon, Sherlock was almost killed in a sniper attack which took down an innocent bystander. The sniper got away.   
  
Within an hour Lestrade reached 221B to offer Police protection only to find both Sherlock and John gone with a note addressed to him under the skull.   
  
ON THE RUN. SMS, E-MAILS NO LONGER SECURE. HAVE JOHN WITH ME. DON’T REQUIRE FURTHER PROTECTION.-SH   
  
Mycroft assured him that he had Sherlock in his sights at all times that they would be safe. He had had no time to worry, running ragged as he was with the arrests and the trials. The crumbling major player had produced after-shocks, leading to a subsequent wave of arrests, as other rats were flushed out of their Jim-padded holes.   
  
That was when Sherlock decided to finally jump for the last time.   
  
Mycroft had not told him until two days later, after he had returned from Germany with John. He had watched in his apartment, frozen, holding Mycroft’s hand; the cleaned-up footage of the video-recording that Sherlock had left for them. It had been found on his blackberry, which had been strategically placed on a rock at the rim of the observation deck of Reichenbach Falls.   
  
In typical Sherlock-fashion, death had to be the biggest drama of them all.

There was no sound to be discerned on the video other than the background roar of the falls. It was ridiculous to watch Sherlock calmly position the camera, and then systematically obliterate his footprints from around the rock. Then he had waited for Moriarty with his back to the lens staring at the falls. Jim had strolled into view within the next three minutes looking cocky as you please with no outward signs of having been recently dethroned. He gave a tiny wave and a sarcastic wink to the hidden phone and Lestrade had wanted to scream at Sherlock, scream at him to run and hide.   
  
If Lestrade hadn’t known who the two men in the video were, he would have guessed they were old friends having a pre-planned reunion. They were both smirking as they chatted, looking utterly relaxed in their respective ridiculous designer suits. To his credit, Sherlock had thrown the first punch (Jim should have known better than to insult John). They had struggled, the skirmish carrying them ever close to the edge. Moriarty had gained his footing first and with a lucky stroke, had Sherlock hanging over the edge of the falls. In a split-second manoeuvre, Sherlock had thrust himself forward to wrap Jim almost lovingly in an embrace and then let gravity carry them over the edge.   
  
Sherlock’s last expression had been fiercely joyous, almost indecent in its giddiness…   
  
It was an hour later, when Lestrade realised that Mycroft’s laptop was lying smashed on the floor… that his partner had him firmly held in a bear-hug and was rocking him back and forth, uttering some soothing nonsense in his ear, and that he had completely lost his voice.

  
To add insult to the injury, his tears just wouldn’t stop.  
  
He hadn’t given himself any more time to grieve. He had pushed himself punishingly into dismantling the carcass of Moriarty’s organisation. Once Interpol had released his London clients list, it had been a field week for trying to solve cold cases dating fifteen–twenty years back. Most of the crimes had been undetected to date. He stayed at the office with a spare change of clothes and avoided his apartment like the plague.  
  
He tried telling himself that he was over-reacting when he started snapping at Mycroft for trivial things. But even he knew that the underlying cause for his desire to hurt him was completely different.  _You had promised, you would keep them safe_.

  
That had opened the rift. Mycroft wasn’t a fool to be able to ignore the elephant that was always in the room with them. Conversations became more difficult when Lestrade began to have an issue with how the hell could Mycroft take his brother’s death so calmly. He knew his partner too well to recognise that this wasn’t his usual stoicism. While he was truly affected by Lestrade’s distress and did everything to comfort him, he himself remained strangely unfeeling. Where was the man who had pleaded with him to ‘let him do his bit’?

  
In an effort to salvage their relationship, Mycroft had finally put a blanket ban on the subject of Sherlock.   
  
He knew that Mycroft was meeting with John daily, especially to keep him apprised of the efforts of trying to locate Sherlock’s body.

  
He himself hadn’t had the nerve to face either John or 221B without another emotional breakdown until he had finally worked up the courage to drag John out for a few pints. After dropping a not-too-steady John safely back at Baker Street, he had headed straight to Mycroft’s office. There was something that was required to be done, and they had danced around the topic long enough. But he couldn’t help being nervous as he faced him across the mahogany desk.   
  
“Mycroft, we need to have some sort of a memorial service for Sherlock.”   
  
He saw him take a deep breath, trying to summon some hidden reserve of energy. “Gregory, I thought we had decided that…”   
  
“This is different”, he interrupted, struggling to keep his voice as emotionless as that of the man before him. He failed. “Everyone cannot move on as fast as you do. Some of us need help.”   
  
Mycroft closed his eyes, ignoring the jibe. “My brother would have abhorred the idea. I have to respect his wishes.”   
  
Lestrade gritted his teeth in frustration. “Your. Brother. Is. Dead. It doesn’t matter, what he would or wouldn’t have wanted. It’s John. He’s refusing to even believe that Sherlock’s dead. Did you know that?”   
  
“I surmised as much from the way he is wholly invested in the search for the body. But that is to be expected. Once the search is called off, he will understand.”   
  
“Then you don’t know John Watson very well. He needs closure, Mycroft. He needs Sherlock’s death to be real.” He hesitated, knowing full well, what effect his next words would have, “Maybe you do too!”   
  
At his words, Mycroft’s face twisted into an expression that was so hideously painful that Lestrade had to suppress an involuntary gasp. He stood up abruptly, hands clasped to the edge of his desk, stopping himself; a picture of mute helplessness. He looked at Lestrade with unseeing eyes, as though he had suddenly turned see-through; as though he was addressing another presence in the room, “It’s not going to be alright, is it?” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “He was right,” he murmured almost to himself, “I cannot do this.”

  
He let go of the table and straightened up, opening his eyes. They were startlingly clear; the pain having already been accepted and buried where Lestrade would never see it again.    
  
“I’m sorry, Gregory,” he said loudly. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice had a tone of finality.

  
Lestrade’s mind reeled under an attack of déjà-vu, as he remembered Julia’s voice.   
  
“What?” his own voice sounded so strange to his ears.   
  
Mycroft’s voice was molten steel. “As long as we remain together, you will never be able to let Sherlock go. I do not have the luxury of wallowing in grief. I need to forget him. John is holding on to the hope that he maybe alive. But you… you   
_believe_ he’s dead and are still unable to move on. You need to let go, if you wish to get on with your life which is going to prove impossible with us together. It is for the best, Gregory.”   
  
_So this one was his fault too!_   
  
“You selfish sod!” Lestrade’s voice was quietly shaking. “Don’t make this about me. Sherlock died and you neither feel guilt at your failure to protect him, nor pain at his loss. It is you, who is being inhuman. If this is who you really are, I’m glad we’re calling it quits.”   
  
He whirled to barge out, praying that his legs would hold him till he was out of the door, when a soft voice which was almost a plea froze him in his tracks.   
  
“Greg, one day, I might ask you, if you remember the words I had said to you, the first time we had met when standing below your flat. Necessary though this is, it will never change how I feel about you. For whatever it is worth, I’m sorry…”

  
  
***   


  
Lestrade shuddered as he wrenched his mind to the present, to try and concentrate on what John was saying.  
  
“…the violins are fine, but Sherlock hates Mendelssohn; Freesias under his photograph, when he’s allergic to them is just  **wrong** . And was it so difficult for Mycroft, to get a picture of him smiling?”  
  
Lestrade recognised the nervous rambling for what it was. The hall was slowly filling to capacity behind them. He had received an impersonal e-mail invite for the Service from Mycroft. He had complied with the last request, Lestrade had made of him as his partner. He felt strangely grateful for that.  
  
The Service began with a short Sermon by a Minister, during which he saw John reach out and clutch Mrs. Hudson’s hand. That was followed by Mycroft’s eulogy, in which he reminisced about their childhood. By the time he had finished, John’s breathing had turned audibly harsh. After his speech, Mycroft had kept an ‘open stage’ for anyone who had wanted to say something about Sherlock. There were many. They didn’t have much to say, but in their own words, they tried to give a farewell to the man whose brilliance had briefly illuminated their lives.  
  
Most of them seemed to know John; as the gazes and the words seemed to be directed towards him. Even the homeless guy, who seemed to have wandered in accidently, publicly offered condolences to Sherlock’s Doctor from ‘all of them’.  
  
It was when Angelo started to speak, that Lestrade saw John’s free hand dart and grip his left thigh convulsively, as a dry sob escaped him.  
  
When it seemed that no one else was left, Lestrade found himself getting up and walking up to the front. He had no idea what he was doing, knowing that he was probably going to melt in a puddle of tears in front of half the Yard, which included his team. All he knew was that he owed it to Sherlock. He started haltingly.  
  
"I am Detective Inspector Lestrade with the Metropolitan Police Department. I have known Sherlock for seven years, and anyone who had even one conversation with him will know that he was a know-it-all, arrogant sod. But, a very few people like me got the privilege to see the man; the human being beneath the shocking exterior. He had his flaws and made his mistakes.”  
  
He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. “I have very few regrets in life.  **Now** , one of the most important ones is that I never actually told him upfront, what he meant to me. Brilliant though he was, he could be a bit thick about such things, like feelings; and I find myself wishing that I had made mine clearer.”  
  
“I don’t believe in the afterlife, no offence Father, but Sherlock, if you are listening, here goes… I just want to tell you, that I loved you and respected you. I loved you, like the son I never had and like the brother I would have wished to have. You have been a comrade in my battles for so long that I hope I find the strength to fight without you by my side.”  
  
He had eyes only for John, who had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the tears which he had finally allowed himself. He swallowed furiously, determined to not let the pressure behind his own eyes show.  
  
“You shared the Science of deduction with me, and I pride myself on having taught you the meanings of dull things like friendship, love and sacrifice. The crazy, genius that you are, you couldn’t help but give a practical demonstration of what you had learned. Bravo! I couldn’t be more proud of you than I am now. I am honoured to have known you. And I think, every person sitting in this room will agree with me, when I say that it will be impossible to forget you…Farewell, Sherlock Holmes.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I had posted the story, it was brought to my notice that British Police Detectives do not generally carry fire-arms... I apologize if it offends any sensibilities. Kindly chalk it down to artistic license...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Inspector Lestrade takes a trip down memory lane, to find Sherlock at all the important stops. It includes my versions of their first meeting, post-ASIP, post-TGG and post-Reichenbach from Lestrade’s POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's cliche, but their first meeting had to be a case-fic!

**“ONE”!**   
  
It was strange that there were no premonitions, portents or signs giving him some clue that this was the day it was all going to change… the day he would meet Sherlock Holmes for the first time…   
  
He had been a Detective Sergeant for six years, when Detective Inspector Arthur Brent had been transferred to the London Headquarters of the Yard. His reputation had preceded him. There had been a long queue of hopeful applicants, wanting to join his team. Lestrade had been one of them. When he had been selected, he remembers joyfully hugging Julia, telling her how this was the best thing that had happened to his career in a long time.   
  
He had no inkling, how right he had been.   
  
***

When he began working with Brent, he realised that the reputation was well deserved. The man was an excellent investigator. He handled his team with an iron fist, yet commanded unwavering loyalty from each of them. At the same time, he was never bogged down by the administrative side of the job. He never lost patience, whether it was with a sobbing witness, a nosy reporter or an overbearing superior Officer.   
  
So it was with great surprise, when three months into working with the man, Lestrade saw him lose it completely.   
  
There had been a murder. Lestrade hadn’t known the details as he had been late to work that day, what with Julia’s missed period, the pregnancy test being negative, and her finding out just as he was about to step out of the house in the morning. She had been inconsolable. He sighed as he drove directly to the crime-scene address, willing her tearful face out of his mind. Brent demanded that they leave their problems at home, while coming to work. He couldn’t afford to get distracted. He parked just beyond the yellow tape, blocking off the street, at the back-alley of the restaurant.

  
He got out of his car, to be assaulted by a strange sight. At the edge of the tape, Detective Inspector Brent was holding someone singlehandedly by the collar and shouting, while shaking the man vigorously.   
  
“GODDAMNED SNOOP, if I catch you messing around my crime-scene one more time, you will seriously regret it… do you understand?”   
  
Lestrade rushed in to placate his Superior. Whoever the bloke was, he wasn’t actively trying to hurt Brent; hell he wasn’t even trying to defend himself.   
Manhandling a civilian was plain wrong and not just for the bad publicity. He reached his Boss’s side to place a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sir, I think that’s enough.” His voice was firm. “You should let him go now.”   
  
With the hand on his shoulder, Brent’s unhinged look seemed to dissipate a bit. He still gave the man one last shaking, before throwing him outright, to sprawl on the street. He spat at the now prone figure, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away.”   
  
Lestrade spared the dark haired, pale man in a suit one glance to confirm he was alright, before turning to Brent. “Sir, are you sure you are okay?” he needed to ask the question, because the man still looked a little wild.

“Fine…I’m fine…get back to work”, he snapped.   
  
The stranger had picked himself up, dusting himself off perfunctorily, before saying loudly in an unruffled baritone, “You and your little helpers working so assiduously in there are going to come to the wrong conclusion as usual. Danny Cootes isn’t the murderer, Brent. I know I’m right; and so will you, if you choose to exercise your neurons, a little more than usual.”   
  
Lestrade was looking at the man as though he was mental; before he realised that Brent was moving to attack him again. He held fast to his boss as he ordered the other, “Go…just get out!”   
The man looked at him assessing, then smirked as he left.   
  
By the time they had returned to the restaurant kitchen, Brent was back to his old self, reprimanding him for his lateness. Lestrade meekly apologised as he went to work, gathering the reins of the investigation.   
  
The victim was a 43 year old Paul Jones, head-chef of the establishment. His body had been found by the early morning staff, with a paring knife sticking out of it's back; stuck into the walk-in freezer. The wound hadn’t been immediately fatal. The man had slowly bled out, while struggling against the door of the freezer, a large puddle of his frozen blood, now thawing on the floor. There were no signs of a break-in. Forensics gave a tentative time of death. There were hundreds of prints everywhere.   
The entire restaurant staff had been assembled in the dining room, for questioning.   
  
Then began the usual gamut of questions. “Where were you between 2.00 and 2.30 a.m. yesterday night?” Of course they had been sound asleep in their respective beds. How was Paul Jones as a Boss/employee? He was a good man, by popular opinion. He had to be, to be in-charge of a kitchen in Central London. Then came the third important question , “Do you know, if he had any enemies or anyone with a grudge?”   
  
“Danny”, chirped the youngest dishwasher promptly. “ ‘e was shagging ‘is daughter. Boss found out only coupla days back…”   
  
“I wouldn’t like to name names”, said the Manager diplomatically. “But we were going to ask them to reach an amicable solution. Daniel Cootes is a talented sou-chef, and Paul fired him without notice, for personal reasons. That’s against Management Policy, and Danny complained about it. Let’s just say that there was no love lost between the two.”   
  
It was Sandra, the 55 year old, matronly Chef de Partie, who was the most informative. “They had a major fight in the kitchen day before yesterday, when Paul fired Danny. He hadn’t known that Danny and Evie were an item, before then. There had been words, and a little roughing up. But hell, this is a busy kitchen. For us, that sort of a thing is a usual Saturday night. We thought Paul didn’t mean it. It would blow over, once he cooled off.”   
  
“Paul didn’t mean what, exactly?”   
  
“I believe his exact words were, ‘Get the hell out of my kitchen, and if I see you near my daughter again, I’ll chop your balls off’.   
As Lestrade began scribbling, she added hastily, “But as I said, that was usual pissed-off-Paul talk for the kitchen.”   
  
By the time Lestrade finished with the interviews, Forensics had wrapped up. He stood outside with Brent, comparing notes.

“So what do you think, Greg?”   
  
“Well Sir, I have to say that Daniel Cootes seems to be our prime suspect for the time-being.”   
  
Brent sensed the hesitation in his voice. “But?”   
  
Lestrade didn’t want to admit that the suited stranger was the main reason he doubted the available evidence. The crime was sloppy enough to have been committed by a first-timer, in the heat of the moment. He settled for the nearest reason. “It just…seems too obvious, Sir.”   
  
“Hmm…” Brent muttered looking off into the distance. “But we can’t ignore the evidence, can we? Get back to the Yard. I need to know, if Cootes has a record. Trace his licence plate. I think I’ll pay him a home visit. Keep me updated on forensics.”   
  
“Yes Sir”, said Lestrade, as he turned to head back to his car.   
  
“And Greg, you are not to talk to anyone about this case…anyone…did I make myself clear?”   
  
“Of course, Sir.”

  
As he fished around his pocket for the car keys, his phone buzzed. It was Julia. “Hello Greg, I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Burns on Regent Street, at 7 today evening. It was very difficult to get, but luckily the receptionist turned out to be an old school friend. I need you there with me.”  
Lestrade yanked the door open and slid inside. “Honey, I know I promised, but there’s been a homicide. You know how it is.”  
There was a studied silence on the line. His shoulders slumped. “Alright, I’ll try. Dr.Burns…Regent Street…7 p.m. I’ll be there.”  
  
He gave another sigh as he tossed the phone in the seat beside him, before he started the car and pulled out onto the road. He was well on his way to the Yard, when a deep baritone sounded behind him. “Aren’t we off to pick Danny Cootes for questioning?”  
  
“FUCK!” Lestrade yelled, as he abruptly slammed the brakes on his car, making the tyres skid. Fortunately, there had been no one immediately behind, to dash into him. His heart thudding painfully against his ribs, he whirled on the man in the back seat. It was the stranger from the crime-scene.  
  
“How the fuck did you get into my car?”  
  
“Really Sergeant,  _that’s_  the question you want to ask me? Oh well, it’s obvious isn’t it? I jimmied your window. Not exactly Fort Knox…”  
  
Lestrade was looking at him properly for the first time. What struck him first, were the eyes; quicksilver with a dollop of blue and a hint of green, looking at him in a way that made him feel like he could hide nothing from them. Jet black curly hair fell over an alabaster forehead, and sharp cheekbones arched over lips curled in a sneer. The upturned coat collar and posh accent completed the haughty picture.  
  
Before Lestrade could open his mouth, the man was talking again. “I know exactly what you’re going to say, so let me just save us some time. No, I’m not getting out of the car. Yes, you may arrest me, if you still wish to; by the time we reach the Yard. Yes, I know that you are not going to share any crime-scene details with me. I am not a journalist. Now, with that out of the way, how about I talk and you listen.”  
  
Lestrade snapped his open mouth shut and re-started the car, one eye on the central mirror. The sharp eyes were not looking at him, but staring straight ahead, unseeing.  
  
“Here’s what you know. Danny Cootes, Sou-Chef with a grudge against Paul; with a very recent and public row with the victim, under his belt. What Forensics will tell you is that Paul died as a result of hypothermia and blood-loss. The paring knife will turn out to have both their prints, which proves nothing. Both of them had keys to the kitchen and the freezer, so no need of a break-in. Now the curious parts: there were no signs of a struggle. No pots and pans overturned. The victim knew the murderer; trusted him enough to walk into the freezer with him, where the murderer caught him unawares, stabbed him in the back, and left him there to die.”  
  
“I’m not done yet”, he retorted, as Lestrade tried to speak again. “Now for the things you don’t know… Paul Jones had a long-standing gambling habit. Recently, he got mixed up with a wrong crowd. He was losing badly. He was a co-owner of the restaurant until six months back; when he sold his stake in it. His family never saw the money. And the second most important thing, Paul and Brent were well acquainted.”  
  
Lestrade forgot to keep quiet, “Detective Inspector Brent?”  
  
“Do we both know any other? Try to keep up; I hate repeating myself.”  
  
 _That might explain Brent’s strange behaviour in the morning_ , Lestrade thought.  
  
“Of course, that explains his behaviour”, the man snorted, startling Lestrade. “But not in the grief-stricken way,  _you_  are thinking. They were both gambling buddies. Every second Tuesday of the month, they patronised an illegal, high stakes poker game in Chinatown.”  
  
It was Lestrade’s turn to snort. “Brent…gambling illegally…right! No wonder, he almost walloped you.”  
  
The stranger suddenly snapped out of his reverie, as though noticing Lestrade’s existence. “Hero-worship…how quaint! Tell me Sergeant, have you noticed Inspector Brent’s shoes?”  
  
“Shoes! Why the hell would I?”  
  
“ _You_  wouldn’t. They are genuine Berluti loafers. The watch on his hand is a limited edition Tag Heur. Do you have any idea, just how much those shoes cost?”  
  
“They could be a gift.”  
  
“The watch, maybe, but who gifts hand-crafted shoes?”  
  
Lestrade realised that his voice had become defensive. “Arthur Brent is a veteran, with an exemplary record.”  
  
“Here’s some news for you Sergeant…heroes don’t exist. Just some individuals who happen to make the right choice, and are benefitted by the expediency of the moment. I’m not contradicting your assessment. Brent may have been an upstanding Officer. The gambling is definitely recent; shoes are less than a year old. He started with winning, people usually do. But, they let him win big. Why would they do that? Not as Brent has deep pockets, because he doesn’t. Obviously, because of his position in the Yard. Now, he is associated with them; and these are some serious people. Brent has a debt to pay, a reputation to uphold, young,  _naïve underlings_  to impress; he has a lot to lose.”  
  
“All this based on your assumption that Brent gambles.”  
  
“Aargh! It’s not an assumption. Day before yesterday was the second Tuesday of this month. I was tailing Jones, the last two days. He picked Brent at his apartment and they both drove together to Chinatown. Also the patrons have a tattoo, in the shape of a sun, where it can be displayed at the entrance to the den. The victim had it on his left ankle. Your favourite Inspector has it on his upper chest, below his left clavicle. I happened to catch a glimpse of it in our scuffle today.”  
  
Lestrade had had enough. “Who the hell are you and why are you doing this? Is Cootes a friend?”  
  
“What?” He appeared nonplussed. “Cootes is a client…or rather Evie Jones is. It was a rather boring investigation into finding out how and why Paul was losing money, and slowly becoming paranoid. His murderer made things interesting.” He looked away as he added, “I don’t have friends.”  
  
“So you’re a private detective?”  
  
“He wrinkled his nose at the description, looking all of twelve years old. “Sort of.”  
  
“If you were following Paul around, where were you yesterday when someone decided to kill him?”  
  
He stiffened suddenly, and Lestrade knew he had touched a sore spot. “I didn’t anticipate this development. Paul was losing money, but he wasn’t bankrupt. He owned a summer-house, which he could have sold. Killing him, when they could milk more out of him, was pointless and stupid. In any case when Paul turned in for the night yesterday, at twelve, I left. I had collected all the data that I needed on his illicit activities. As far as I was concerned, my job was done.”  
He sniffed, “Then today morning, I got a call from the daughter, that Paul was missing from his home. The first place I checked was the restaurant. The corpse had just been discovered. I got a chance to examine the crime scene, before you lot arrived to stomp around in it.”  
  
“They let you in, to examine the body.”  
  
“Please! Only the half-witted cleaning crew had been present. Not a difficult job, to fool them into thinking I was official.”  
  
“No wonder Brent was mad!”  
  
“He is covering up for his gambling Bosses. He is going to build a false case against…Oh!” , he suddenly gasped as though, he had been slapped.  
“Oh…that’s clever…reeeally clever!”  
  
Lestrade parked and turned around to face him fully. “What?”  
  
He exhaled, “Brent killed Cootes.”  
  
“Now that’s bollocks!”  
  
“No! Shush… just THINK!  If it was a professional hit, Paul would have been killed on the road, in an alley; even at the den itself, two days back. But this wasn’t about Paul at all. This was about getting their claws into Brent. They ordered him to kill Paul. Paul and Brent were sort-of friends. Paul had been furious about his daughter’s involvement with Danny. I bet he ranted about it, when they met, two days back. Brent knew about the falling-out, and also knew Paul enough to catch him unawares. He fits the bill, don’t you see?”  
  
Lestrade tried to be calm. “All I see is an anaemic lunatic with an over-fertile imagination. For starters, I am yet to hear the iron-clad reason, why Daniel Cootes  _couldn’t_  possibly have committed this murder.”  
  
“As you must have already determined, the time of death was between 2.00 and 3.00 am, yesterday night. Danny was nowhere near the restaurant at that time.”  
  
“And how do you know that?”  
  
He looked at Lestrade appraisingly, and then shrugged. “It’s not important.”  
  
“Right!” Lestrade said sarcastically. You sit there, spin stories out of thin air and insult my superior Officer without a whit of evidence to back you up. Look, Brent maybe a slave-driver; hell, could even be a gambler. This job can do that to you. But he is not a murderer. You don’t know Brent. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you from Adam. Why the hell should I trust you?”  
  
“Speak for yourself!” He shot back, and started speaking rapidly without a pause. “Here’s what  **_I_** know about you…you are Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, 37 years old. You have been happily married since ten years to a five feet seven inch tall brunette. You don’t have any children though. Your parents died when you were very young, in a car-accident. You were either adopted or brought up in foster-care, but you chose to retain the name of your birth-parents. You had a rebellious youth; were probably a part of a motorcycle gang…no criminal activities though. You would prefer riding a bike to a car even today, but your incipient cervical spondylosis has forced you to adjust. You are a chronic smoker, at least two packs a day, sometimes three...you have a strong moral code, ingrained protective instincts. You have a trusting nature, and are honest and straightforward to a fault.” His tone made the last bit sound like a rap sheet, but Lestrade was too impressed to care…  
  
“That was …how the hell…?”  
  
The man rolled his eyes. “See! I don’t imagine. I observe and deduce… That’s what I do.”  
  
“But how?”  
Lestrade will never forget, what came next…  
  
“Fine…if you are not going to let it go… I got your name off the parking-ticket stuffed in the dashboard. Your ring tells me the state and the age of your marriage; ten years old and polished regularly. I picked a long black hair off your shoulder, which has to belong to your wife, firstly because I noticed it when you had just arrived and secondly because, the only black-haired female on your team is a bottle-brunette; while this hair is naturally black.”  
  
Here he took a second’s pause to wave his blackberry screen in Lestrade’s face. “Dr. Claire Burns, Regent Street is a renowned expert on infertility treatments, so no kids. You should reconsider the smoking, which I figured out from the number of packets you are currently carrying; one in the front coat of your pocket, and one in your trouser pocket, both of which I saw at different times. You have a photo in uniform with your parents, stuck to your dash, which is probably that of your first day at work. Your parents are much too young to be your birth-parents; besides the fact that both are blue eyed. I know you kept your name because….” And here he whipped out the phone again, “Frank and Dorothy Lestrade expired in a freak car accident in the winter of 1980, and are survived by one son”, he recited. He paused for a breath, impatient to finish.  
  
“I know about your teenage walk on the wild side, from the tattoo you had on the back of your right palm, but which you got surgically covered up before you joined the Met… you also had an ear-piercing on the right side, which closed over, but a faint scar can be seen, especially at the back. I know you love riding a motorcycle, from your posture and the way you are clutching the steering wheel. You don’t have a criminal record, because I am not aware of a 'Lestrade' having one, and I have catalogued all juvenile offenders over the last twenty years. A necessary ordeal, as those records get sealed and the really interesting criminals start young!”  
  
“As to your character sketch, you had no reason to prevent Brent from roughing me up today morning, but you still chose to risk incurring the wrath of your boss on my behalf, when you didn’t even know me; so strong moral principles, and a rigid sense of right and wrong. The rigidity can be determined by the  _parking-ticket…_ you’re a cop, and you still accepted and paid for illegal parking. This also tells me that you won’t be able to stand by and let an innocent man go to prison for murder, which is why I’m sitting in the backseat of  _your_  car.”  
  
Lestrade could do nothing but stare at the man, opening and closing his mouth like a guppy fish.

“And of course before I forget, my name is Sherlock Holmes; pleased to make your acquaintance”, his smile was all teeth and completely weird.   
  
“That was…brilliant!” Lestrade finally managed. “A bit spooky and creepy, but brilliant all the same. So Mr. Holmes, that your real name?”   
  
He rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, please...Shall we just say that there is a teensy possibility that my deduction regarding Brent is correct? That is actually what I’m fishing for, while wasting my time telling you things about yourself, which you already know.”   
  
Lestrade sighed, “Even if I were to be convinced, which I’m not, there isn’t a shred of proof connecting Brent to the crime; hell even connecting Brent to Paul.”   
  
Sherlock’s tone was challenging, “You do not have any damning evidence against Danny either.”   
  
“There’s circumstantial evidence, enough to bring him in for questioning.”   
  
“Very thoughtful of Brent”, breathed Sherlock, his tone filled with admiration. “What happens with Danny is immaterial. Whether he’s caught, whether he goes to trial, whether this becomes a cold case consigned to your files, it doesn’t make any difference. He’s just a pawn, so that everyone will look the other way, and Paul’s illegal activities, even if uncovered, won’t matter; not with such a tailor-made suspect occupying your attention. Think about it, he could have planted evidence, over-stepped…but no, just the right amount of false scent... this was done with finesse…”

Lestrade looked at his watch. They must be wondering where he had got to. Yet something made him hold his tongue, when he saw Sherlock sitting with his eyes closed, fingers steepled under his chin, as if in prayer and muttering to himself. Just as he finally decided to interrupt, those unearthly eyes snapped open. “Nothing for it…will have to risk it….”, he said loudly to himself, before turning to Lestrade.   
  
“Can I borrow your phone?”   
  
It was after he had handed his phone over without missing a beat that it occurred to him that he had neither objected, nor asked why.   
But Sherlock only glanced through it, before handing it back. Then he whipped out his own blackberry, fingers flying across the keys with the unmistakeable sounds of typing and a message being sent.   
  
When he was done, he flipped the phone around, so the screen was inches from Lestrade’s nose. “What do you think?”   
Lestrade read the sent message displayed on the screen.   
  
FANCY A GAME OF POKER?   
PITY PAUL JONES IS OUT OF ACTION.   
TONIGHT, 12 P.M. REGENT’S PARK.   
  
His eyes flicked to the sent number. It was Brent’s…   
For a moment, he just stared at Sherlock who had a expectant look on his face. “Are you cra…”   
  
His rant was interrupted, before it could start by the chime of an incoming message. Sherlock checked the message, and grinned triumphantly, before showing it to Lestrade.   
  
LOOKING FORWARD TO THE GAME.   
  
The message was unsigned, and the sent number was unknown. But Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he saw the man he had put on a pedestal, tear himself down with one line.   
  
Sherlock didn’t seem to notice his distress. “Thank you, Sergeant. It was very stimulating, talking to you. If it is any consolation, you do know for sure, who the murderer is! You will have your proof by tomorrow.” He moved to leave the car, when Lestrade snapped out of his reverie.   
  
“Where the hell do think you are going off to? What you have planned is incredibly dangerous. You are going to need help tonight.”   
  
Sherlock regarded Lestrade as though he was a particularly slow child. “Firstly, I can manage on my own. Secondly, you cannot officially liaise with me, when the Chief investigative officer is the primary suspect. If you help me unofficially, even if everything goes according to plan and Brent is exposed; when your involvement comes to light, all of your higher-ups may not take it favourably. Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Oh sure, they will clap your back in front of you, but whisper behind it. You have been a Sergeant for too long now”, he gestured towards the photograph. “This might backfire on your career plans. You just don’t see it right now.”   
  
Lestrade stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “What has that got to do with anything? If you are right, Brent killed a man in cold blood with pre-meditated planning so another would get the blame. He is likely to be armed and desperate. You wanna give him a chance for an encore. And in any case, if you didn’t want my interference, you should'nt have shown me the time and place of your meeting, now should you?”   
  
Sherlock was looking at him as though he had just noticed him, which was both a bit insulting and a bit flattering. “Fine…” he conceded. “You are right. I can’t stop you, if you want to come.”   
  
“See you tonight, then.” Lestrade said with a weak grin.   
  
***

  
At 9.30 p.m. as pre-decided, Lestrade reached Regent Park. He was having serious misgivings. He had avoided Brent all day, facing him only to submit the Forensic reports. If he was the murderer, he was a fantastic actor as well, as there was no change in his behaviour or demeanor all day. Cootes had been found at his apartment, by Brent. He denied having committed the murder, and had spoken only with his lawyer present. He gave the same alibi as others at the restaurant, which could not be verified as he lived alone.   
  
Time and again, Lestrade found his mind drifting to the brilliant young man. How he had picked his life story apart with only a name and a photo to go on… Now as he walked into the park, the Service revolver he had officially signed out from the armoury, snug against his hip; he wondered at his motivations behind helping a man he had met twelve hours before…a man who had definitely not been completely forthcoming with him either…he squared his shoulders, as he spotted the tall figure in the distance. This was not a time for misgivings. They had a murderer to catch.   
  
Sherlock handed him a small earpiece, in a manner of greeting. “You are late!”   
  
“Well, you know about the doctor’s appointment, right? My wife was…”

“Dull!” Sherlock interrupted pointedly. “We don’t have much time. You will stay behind that spruce tree. You will have a good vantage point, as well as hear everything that happens.”   
Lestrade inserted the earpiece in his ear as he nodded.   
  
“Now Sergeant, this is very important. You don’t come out, until we have a confession on tape. No…you need to be clear about this. This is our only chance, and we can’t afford to blow it. You stay under cover, until he confesses…no matter what happens.”   
  
“What if he just turns up and shoots you in the head?”   
  
“All the more reason to remain hidden, as you will be the only witness to my murder. Besides it will be too late for me, anyways…”   
  
He wasn’t kidding, Lestrade realised. He seriously didn’t care, as if it were no big deal, if he were to drop off the face of the earth in the next ten minutes.   
Looking at Lestrade’s expression, he hastened to add, “I do not expect anything like that, in any case. He will prefer not to use his weapon. He will have to report weapons discharge at the Met. But he may have some other trick up his sleeve. You will be tempted to interfere…Don’t! Stay hidden!”   
  
Without further ado they took their positions silently.   
It wasn’t long before the tall, built figure of Brent sauntered into view. In the half-light Sherlock looked even scrawnier in comparison.   
  
He nodded in greeting, and his voice floated through the earpiece, “Good evening, Inspector.” God, his voice was arrogant!

 Brent’s answering voice was hard, “I knew it would be you. Told you to keep your fucking nose out of my business.”   
  
“I know everything…”   
  
“Your word against that of a respected Yard Detective. It doesn’t matter.”   
  
“I have proof. I have video proof of you getting into Brent’s car this Tuesday and driving to Chinatown. What will happen if I were to post it anonymously to your higher-ups in the Met? Nothing much, probably. An enquiry over a fuzzy video that goes nowhere. But you will be discredited, under suspicion. A tainted cop is not of much use to your gambling Bosses. Rather, you will become a liability. I bet,  **_they_ ** take you down first.”   
  
“You little…”, the rest of the words drowned in static, as Brent darted forward. There was a solid thunk on the microphone, just before Lestrade saw Sherlock collapse to the ground, in a heap. In the next instant, Brent was behind his kneeling form, using his own scarf to strangle him.   
  
“No!” Sherlock yelled hoarsely, just as Lestrade was about to rush out, instructions be damned; and he knew it was meant for him. Brent’s voice came over the microphone again and Lestrade hesitated, “Who else did you tell? Did you tell anyone about this?” Sherlock was scrabbling at his neck with both hands. Brent shook him like a rag doll. “Answer me, you twerp…”   
  
“No one…nobody else…” Sherlock choked out. Brent finally released him, and he crumpled gasping on the ground.”   
  
The next instant, the distant streetlight glinted off something between Brent’s fingers, and Lestrade forgot to wait as he ran out screaming bloody murder. “BRENT…NO! STOP!”   
Brent stilled as he came into view. Lestrade hadn’t even realised that he had drawn his gun, which was now squarely trained on his boss.   
  
“Greg, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” He stepped back from Sherlock. Lestrade’s gaze swept over his hands, but they were empty.   
Sherlock wasn’t moving. He bent down to check on him, but he seemed to be out cold; a large bruise blooming on his temple. Brent had pistol-whipped him.   
  
Brent started laughing.   
“Oh don’t tell me, he got you, got you with some cock and bull story.” His voice took on a dangerous edge. “Do you know what you’re doing Greg, pointing a gun at me?”   
 Lestrade didn’t lower the gun. “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to empty your pockets…no sudden movements.”   
  
He advanced on Lestrade, who took a step back reflexively. “You’re wearing an ear-piece.”   
  
“Yes, I heard every word. I also know about you and Paul Jones and your little hobby.”   
  
“Did you also hear how he was blackmailing me?” Brent’s voice was incredulous. “Jesus Greg! I can’t believe, you fell for what this little piece of shit told you. Did he tell you about  **_his_ ** buddy? Did he tell you how he was investigating Paul as a favour to Cootes?”   
  
“As a matter of fact, he did.”   
  
Brent faltered for a second but continued. “And did he tell you  **_why_ ** he was doing this for him?”   
  
Lestrade tensed visibly, but his voice stayed firm. “He’s a P.I. That’s his job.”

This time Brent’s laugh was actually hilarious. “Oh, that’s precious!” He bent down to Sherlock’s prone form showing his empty hands to Lestrade as he did so, turning him over and yanking up his sleeves. Both of Sherlock’s inner arms were dotted with familiar track marks.  
  
Lestrade had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he took a step back, the hand with the gun dropping to his side. Brent smirked, “Good, do you get the picture now? He’s a no good junkie, and Daniel Cootes moonlighted as a drug peddler. Bet he didn’t tell you that either. Paul had turned a blind eye to his extra-curricular activities, as he was good at his job. But when he got involved with his daughter, Paul threatened to turn him in. That’s why Cootes killed him, probably in the heat of the moment; then asked Holmes to cover up for him. And you believed  **_him_** ; an addict, who will do anything for his next hit…good job, Sergeant!­”  
  
Even now Lestrade wanted nothing more than to believe Brent; which made him hesitate, before his thoughts asserted themselves. He understood why Sherlock had been less than honest with him, as all the pieces fell into place. This time he raised his weapon resolutely.

“Let’s just talk about you, Sir shall we? If you knew all this, why didn’t you confide it to the team? Why did you agree to meet Sherlock here, instead of arresting him and dragging him down to the Met? If he is lying, why were you trying to kill him? If you are innocent, you have nothing to worry about. Step away from him, and we can interrogate them both at the Yard.”  
  
Lestrade had taken a calculated gamble.  
  
Suddenly, without warning Sherlock lunged towards Brent like a snake. Before Lestrade could appreciate what was happening, something fell across the cobblestones, just as Brent aimed a vicious kick to Sherlock's middle, making him double up on himself and crumple to the ground wheezing again.  
  
On the ground between them was a pre-filled, capped hypodermic syringe!  
  
Brent moved to kick it away, but froze as Lestrade moved his gun-hand to him. “Give me a reason…Hand over any weapons that you are carrying, right now.”  
  
Sherlock gave a hollow laugh, his glittering eyes fixed on Brent. “A paring knife in the freezer for Paul; to frame Danny; and a drug overdose to kill me. No one would look twice at the body of an overdosed junkie lying in the park, or so you thought. You would never have got away with my murder, Brent. But I do admire the logical thought process... In any case, you are absolutely  _wasted_  as a cop.”

Brent threw himself on Sherlock with an inarticulate cry.   
Lestrade didn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger and shot Brent through the leg.   
  
***   
  
The park was a crime scene. The first ambulance on the scene had taken Brent away. The bullet had gone clean through without much damage, but he had been bleeding. Lestrade finished briefing the team and the other D.I. who had taken charge of the scene, after which he finally found time to walk up to Sherlock. He was sitting on a sidewalk bench, holding a cold compress (probably given to him by the paramedics) to the side of his face and wincing. He fixed Lestrade with overlarge eyes as he approached.   
  
“Here, drink some water. It’ll help…and I’ll do that…”, he said taking the compress and applying it with greater pressure.

"Ow", he winced.  _Jesus, he was just a kid,_ Lestrade thought.  
  
His eyes were staring again, as though wishing to dissect Lestrade with them. As Lestrade held his gaze, he dropped his eyes to his hands, which were splayed open on his lap.  
  
“He was right, you know.”  
  
“About the drug use?” Lestrade said dryly. “I may not have your superior powers of observation, but I figured as much.”  
  
“No…yes…about that and everything else. Danny is my drug dealer. He promised me the next batch for free, if I could dig up some incriminating information on Paul. I only agreed to do it, as I was low on funds, and it was an easy way to get drugs.”  
  
“Pity, that deal’s ruined.” Lestrade’s voice was sarcastic. “Wait a minute, he didn’t ask you to solve the murder…he couldn’t have. He didn’t know a thing, when Brent brought him in today.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “I didn’t need an incentive for solving the murder. It was interesting enough.” He didn’t look up. “I thought, if I told you…” He faltered and took a deep breath. “I should have told you…”  
  
“You mean, you should have trusted me; the way I trusted you, and shot my Boss.”  
  
“Danny didn’t commit the murder.”  
  
“Because, yesterday at the time of the murder, he was with you exchanging drugs, for the dirt you had collected on Paul. Yup, I figured out that part too.”  
  
The silence stretched to minutes.  
  
“Why drugs?” Lestrade finally bit out the foremost thought in his head.  
He could see that the retort ‘none of your business’ was at the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but when he looked up at Lestrade’s face, he hesitated before speaking.  
  
“It’s like... there’s a monster inside my head. It needs food for thought, or it gets bored. I’m not an idiot, but everytime I get clean the boredom sneaks back and drives it berserk, until it’s clawing on the inside of my skull. The drugs…numb it for sometime…” He looked away again. “I don’t expect you to understand.”  
  
“I think I do.” Lestrade said, remembering the sparkling eyes, which had been so alive in his car, even while deducing his boring history. the same eyes, which now looked forlorn and scarily empty. “How about, if I’m still a cop by the time this fiasco’s wrapped up, I’ll try and convince my new Inspector, to call you in to help... unofficially…give you food for thought…You would have to be clean though.”  
  
Sherlock looked dumbstruck for a moment, just as Lestrade’s phone buzzed.  
  
“Sergeant Lestrade, this is Gregson.”  
  
“Sir”, Lestrade muttered as he moved away to take the call.

“Haul your arse down here, Brent confessed to the murder; wants to go State’s evidence against the crime-ring. His lawyer’s here already, haggling over the terms. You did good…will let the Commissioner know tomorrow, when this blows in our faces. But you need to get here pronto; need a detailed recorded statement from you.”  
  
Lestrade smiled as he walked back to Sherlock. “I have to leave now. Brent confessed to the murder. You scared him into turning into a Government witness.” His voice became stern. “Danny will also go to prison for possession and dealing.”  
  
Sherlock regarded Lestrade with a half grin. “Can’t argue with that honest streak, can I?” He stood up and held out his hand, which Lestrade shook with a smile on his face too. “It wasn’t wholly disagreeable working with you, Sergeant.”  
  
“The name’s Greg.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Too many Gregs in the phone-book. I think I will stick with Lestrade. It’s different.”  
  
Lestrade reddened. “And why do you think my name needs to be different?”  
  
Sherlock regarded him with a piercing gaze. “Well, there are many reasons; the most important one being … you believed me.”  
  
 _Yes, he did_ ; Lestrade realized as he watched Sherlock walk away, not knowing that his life had irrevocably changed forever…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Inspector Lestrade takes a trip down memory lane, to find Sherlock at all the important stops. It includes my versions of their first meeting, post-ASIP, post-TGG and post-Reichenbach from Lestrade’s POV. Final part up!

** “HAPPY NEW YEAR” **   
  
He was still not sure whether he wanted to go…   
  
He fiddled with the cufflinks on his formal shirt while focusing his blurry eyes on the laptop screen, as all hell broke loose. The sound of the video echoed in his empty apartment, as everyone on it was dancing and screaming to the tempo of the music that had burst out as the countdown finished. There were multicolored gaudy lights, glitter and general mayhem. It was like a tiny window to another time.   
  
_Perhaps Anderson was holding the camera_ , Lestrade mused. Initially the video had focused a lot on Sally in a strappy black dress; must have been an off-phase of the relationship. It was the video of the Met’s New Year’s Eve Party, 2009, about a month after the Pool. John had almost completely recovered his mobility, and then produced a second miracle by dragging Sherlock to the party. It had been the first time that Sherlock had deigned to attend a Yard event, as a guest.   
  
Now there were screams, and hugs and kisses, in tandem. The video took a slow circuit around the room, capturing all the moments. Then it suddenly froze on Dimmock, who had been welcoming the New Year, a tad too enthusiastically with Sally, in one of the secluded corners. The camera was rudely plunked down on a table, as Anderson must have headed off to interrupt. Lestrade tried not to remember why he wasn’t in the video; tried but failed to forget the message he had received just before the countdown had started, commanding him to sneak out to the surveillance-free back stairwell, where he had spent the first fifteen minutes of the Year being snogged by Mycroft to within an inch of his life.   
  
His attention came back to the still video-frame, as someone thudded hard against the table and made the camera slide, changing the angle of view. There they were…the only two people sitting down in the sea of revelry. John, looking more than a little tipsy, with his right hand still strapped to his chest and grinning widely while looking at something, probably watching the Anderson drama unfold. Sherlock was sitting right next to him, with an equally huge scowl on his face, looking completely miserable and trapped.   
  
Lestrade watched as John turned to say something to him, and catch his scowl, before Sherlock could hide it. He saw John laugh heartily, mouth ‘Come ‘ere’, quite clearly, as he pulled Sherlock towards him with his free hand and plant a huge sloppy kiss on his cheek. Then he leaned back and wished him a Happy New Year. They were staring at each other, and Sherlock looked completely gobsmacked, his face going red, as he shyly returned the greeting. Lestrade had never seen him happier.   
  
He froze the video…   
  
He sat staring at the image, letting the emotion he had savagely buried since his first outburst, wash over him in waves. He did not know how much time had passed, when he heard his phone buzz insistently. He picked it up to find that there were five missed calls, three from Sally, two from John… alongwith a message waiting in his inbox.   
  
FROM: SALLY   
IT’S 11.15 ALREADY, SIR.   
WAITING FOR YOU.   
JOHN CAME.   
  
“Happy New Year, Sherlock”, he whispered to the image on the screen.   
  
Then he calmly shut the laptop, washed his face and picked up his coat, to leave for this year’s party…   
  
The End...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care that Reichenbach's at the end of season two... As far as I'm concerned, Sherlock's returning after a GREAT hiatus on Jan 1, 2012...A perfect beginning to the new year!


End file.
